


Male Reader X Female Godzilla

by CampGreen



Category: Godzilla - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Horror, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 16:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13275183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: First story of 2018. Godzilla is owned by Toho.





	1. Free-Falling

Took her a while, but Mother Nature has struck back full-force this time. A reptilian beast about the height of a telephone pole and straight out of Dinosaur Times rose from the San Francisco Bay this morning with only one goal in mind - to destroy. To swat at and stomp on any and all buildings in its way in its mindless march through the Golden Gate City. Humanity has never seen a threat like this ever before. It's technically a wild animal attack, but its scale and impact is that of a tornado. You're locked in a cold state of unreality as you watch the situated TV in the cargo bay of a Boeing C-17. Blurry news helicopter footage of a skyscraping silhouette, obscured by the dusty fog of its own carnage, shredding through giants of concrete like paper. Media calls it "Godzilla". Sounds about right. Your squad commander gets finished talking with the pilots and addresses the nine of you in one final announcement as you all hopelessly embrace your harness bars. Well, you do, at least.

_"Alright, troops. In approximately 45 seconds, we'll be directly over the heart of San Francisco. I'm not gonna lie, I don't know what the hell's down there. No one does. And it's our job to find out. I know composing yourself will be hard, but once you get down there, you'll need to focus and get each and every sliver of intel you can gather. Abilities, measurements, weaknesses, habits, anatomy. Any information at all that'll help our boys in the Army organize a proper counteroffensive against this thing. Godspeed."_

After you all undo your harnesses, you and your fellow paratroopers line up. One by one, a man or woman cast themselves from the safety of the C-17 and into a battlefield between mankind and nature, like an angel willfully plunging themselves from Heaven to Hell. It's a good thing the wind is making your flight-suits flap so hard, because it helps hide from your squadmates how hard you're shaking in fear at what lies below. After a short wait, the person in front of you dives off once popping their flare, and now it's your turn. You step up and stand the tips of your boots at the very edge of the loading tail as you squeeze your road flare, desperate for something to cling onto. 

_"Hey,"_ your commander notices your fear even through your skydiving mask. She grabs your face, which sends an assuring warmness through your body. _"It'll be alright. Okay?_

Okay. You take a deep breath and nod, pumped with just enough courage to do this. You pop the cap off your flare and scrape its end against the exposed head with one good jerk. A smoky, red fire roars out in an unmistakable crackle, and you clench your eyes shut as you swallow your fear one last time. Still hiding behind your eyelids, you take a single step off the tail and let gravity handle the rest. When you open your eyes, you're falling over a hundred miles per hour down into a boundless blanket of clouds. Your squadmates' red flare smoke still trails through the skies behind them in their free-falls. Wind roars in your ears and after you leave your imprint through the blanket of blackened cotton like a cookie cutter, a hot horror strikes your soul. You're 20,000 feet in the air, over San Francisco devolved into a flaming, infernal warzone. The buildings that aren't crumpled and fallen like old rotten statues are gutted in the fires of chaos, spewing billows of smoke into the clouds you just dove through. Once you're about 5,000 feet from the nearest skyscraper, you yank your chord and are jerked back by your chute violently snapping out like an air-bag. 

Your fall is soon slowed to about 17 MPH. You glide through the orange-tinted, murky wreckage of the city at a brisk pace, getting a horrific close-up to follow the bird's eye view from a few minutes earlier. It feels like a slow amusement park ride through a monster movie attraction. Right before you touch the ground bordering the Bay, you're just barely snagged on a naked flagpole, getting the strings of your backpack entangled around the metal mast. You have a little PTSD flashback to some grade-school bullying before a tectonic shift shakes you back to the present. Then another one. Then another one. You realize those aren't shifts, they're stomps. Stomps growing ever stronger, ever closer. You fish around the tattered remains of your flight-suit in desperate search for a knife. It's easier said than done thanks to your panic attack and being down an available hand, as one is imprisoned within the matted mess of your parachute. Your brain crystallizes in an evergrowing fear to match the evergrowing stomps as you scurry around for something to cut yourself out with, when suddenly everything gets dark, as if an eclipse just formed to block out the sun. You gulp and look up at the owner of the shadow you've been submerged in. 


	2. Kaiju Attack

It's it. It's _her_. Your first full close-up look at the legendary Godzilla. Turns out she's a completely hairless woman-looking creature with a rubbery grey layer of smooth whale-esque blubber instead of skin. Twenty razor sharp talons protrude from her toes and fingertips in place of nails, and a 15 foot long tail slyly follows her rear-end like a massive python. Said tail, as well as her backbone and the back of her head, is lined with jagged, stalagmite spines, as if a wickedly proportioned mountain range is growing out of her vertebrae. Her face is a jarring blend of reptilian and human, with both a womanly scowl but velociraptor-like skull shape. What shines above all else, however, are incontestably the two monster truck wheel-sized tits bouncing with each and every one of her stomps like waterballoons. Not even your icy fear at being stared down by this literal monster can quell the boner pressing up against the zipper of your shabby flight-suit for the theater-esque front row seat to those perfectly spherical boulders. You finally feel something metal jangling around all of the utility straps that's not a buckle - your combat knife. You rip it out and- oop, welp, you dropped it, nice job. The knife is swallowed by the ground-level cloud of dust from below, and now you're a textbook example of the word "helpless". 

Her soles drag and scrape up against the ground to kick up a fog machine's worth of dust as she gets in a ready-to-pounce stance. Godzilla takes a huge inhale, making her breasts slam together like a couple of wrecking balls, before puckering her lips and almost vaporizing you with firehose-esque spew of blue energy with a temperature of the sun. She, however, fortunately misses by mere centimeters, instead grazing right above your head and cutting you out of the matted mess of your parachute, flagpole, and flight-suit, by smoldering them all from existence with a single heavy breath. You now understand where the "God" comes from. Freed from your snag but half naked and inbound for a 25 foot drop, you plummet to the sidewalk below. You let out a wail but all is relieved when your fall is broken by a diner tarp, which bounces you right back off like a trampoline and onto the roof of a car, shattering its windows and almost a few of your ribs. Sternum cracked, you feebly roll off the dented metal and hit the street with another sickening crunch. You slip underneath the car and between its wheels and cower in its shadow, trembling and terrified beyond any semblance of reason. 

You clutch your ribs in one hand and your head in the other, the former surging with the physical pain of getting pancaked by metal and concrete and the latter surging with the emotional pain of being at the mercy of towering monstrosity. Right as you get a hold of yourself, Godzilla plucks away your cover and casually flicks the 2,000 pound crumb of metal aside like it's a mere annoyance. After you gawk in terror in between the legs of a colossal dinosaur, Godzilla slaps her hands down on the ground to get up close and personal. Your ears are nearly blown out as a roar escapes her lungs, or gills, or whatever, with the explosive weight of an atomic bomb right in your face, like a Tyrannosaurus Rex, which happens to likely be her cousin. The few remaining tatters of your fatigues are blown clean off by the sheer force of the roar, stripping you nude and somehow rendering even more vulnerable. As the ringing in your ears leak away, you crawl to your feet and with each shaving of everything you have, start sprinting through the razed block you've parachuted into. You're nearly thrown right back down every second by one of Godzilla's car-sized soles stomping down on the ground behind you, but you just barely manage to keep your balance as you snake around all the turned over vehicles and lamp posts. 

The all-compassing shadow from above thickens as Godzilla crouches and claws at the street, shredding the road of concrete open, exposing a pipeline, and sending a few cars flying along the way. A barrage of painted cement chunks and vehicles come flying at you that you scarcely duck, as well as a spew of water just like a fire hydrant. Several tons worth of projectiles narrowly miss from squashing you like a bug. You make a blind b-line for a nearby empty pet store, grazed and almost flattened by Godzilla's stomp along the way. You enter through its sliding door and plunge yourself into its shadows. Godzilla sends her fist flying through the display windows and blindly claws around for you like a cat fishing around a mouse hole, painting the interior with dozens of sword-sized gashes. All of the shelves being thrashed around trace an obstacle course you have to crawl under, vault over, and roll through. Bird cages, dog houses, and torn open boxes of cat food rain upon you. It's damn hard to see since the shop is dark and lightless, but that's fixed when Godzilla pries the roof off to let some sunlight in. A shelf packed to the brim with plastic bottles comes crashing down onto you, cracking a few of them open to drench you from head to toe in their colorless liquids. Out of the corner of your eye, you read the labeling of one of the bottles. Crushed beneath a shelf of steel, you've been tenderized in a puddle of...Reptile Pheromones? 


	3. Queen of the Monsters

Godzilla looms over the trashed, roofless retailer building, staring at you, pinned underneath all the debris. This is it. You're naked, you're pinned, you're exhausted, you're cornered. You clench your eyes shut to brace for death as Godzilla raises her foot to stomp you into a stain. But she doesn't do that. She simply dips her sole into the store, a few feet away from you, and bends over to sweep the toppled shelf off and free you. She's...helping you? A fountain of some tangy-smelling fluid falls from in between her legs and soaks your hair. She gingerly plucks you off the ground by your neck, holding you like a dead rodent. She curiously eyes you with her big yellow peepers, holding you up to her large nostrils and sniffing you with intrigue. You lounge upon the pit of her hand, her palm serving a comfy seat and four of her fingers serving a snug backrest. Not even a minute ago, she was trying to stamp you out with the ball of her foot like a cigarette that's served its purpose. Now she's inspecting every crack of your body like a tender little kid considering a bug. Why...oh no. You're bathed in pheromones! Your aura alone is making her soaking wet and she thinks you're a mate! She takes a gentle hold of one of your ankles with a couple fingers from her other hand, placing your heel on her forehead as she slowly drags her carpet-sized tongue up in between your legs, slathering your genitals in spit. 

Before you can even consider what's wrong with this, your eyes roll into the back of your head as you're combed and groomed in the lotion of Godzilla's mouth, the resulting bliss far transcending sex. She holds your torso similar to an ice cream cone as she toothlessly bites down on your entire crotch, juggling your cock and balls from within the unseen insides of her mouth. Her saliva trickles down your thighs and to the ground to endure a 30 foot fall, then she flips you over on your belly to ram her tongue in between your buttcheeks. You hug onto her fingers like a rollercoaster bar as a pink blanket of spit is raked up the most sensitive parts of your lower body from behind. She scoops you up in between your legs with her tongue and takes her hand out of the equation, so all you have saving you from a three story drop is a slimy diving board pressing up against your anus, taint, and the underside of your scrotum, balancing you high up in the air. For added leverage, you desperately cling onto her snout as its nose digs into your back, clenching your eyes shut at the bullet train of wet, celestial pleasure driving through your perineum. 

She whips her tongue and sends you flying downwards, but your fall is caught and cushioned by what feels like a human hamster ball - one of her tits. Your twenty nails dig into the boulder of blubber like a cat dragging down its owner's curtains by its claws, but your grip isn't enough to keep you from slipping. You harmlessly chomp its frisbe-esque areola for a needed anchor, making her entire body jerk with pleasure as if she just got stabbed in the back. Lips locked on the black saucer, you suck the baseball-like nipple in its center to further please the beast. Thank God this thing is a reptile, because if it were a mammal, you'd be choking on few dozen gallons of breast milk right now. After sucking till your lips go dry, you're delicately extracted from her chest and dropped over her shoulder, dooming you to a potentially deadly drop past the many spines jutting out her back. Your fall, however, is interrupted when gravity crams you in between Godzilla's buttcheeks, like a pencil-dropped-in-plumber's-crack prank. Being bathed in pheromones and spit just a few minutes prior, the lubrication almost wiggles and slips you out to continue your plummet, however this is cut off when she clenches her cheeks hard and gets on all fours.

You drag yourself out the confines of her crack and onto her buttocks. To the ankle, your feet are swallowed the rubbery skin encasing her muscle, fattiest in the assets. Every step forward you take in route to her back is like a trampoline bounce, tickling her every time. You're unable to get any bearings on the planet-shaped and sized waterbed of skin, and plummet off her rear, again saved from a fall only when you instinctively grab her vaginal lips. You helplessly dangle in front of the meter-tall flesh crevice as it profusely bleeds literal gallons of a shiny sap. Godzilla reaches her hand around, which you expect to save you from a painful fall, but instead she pokes you in the center of your back firmly enough to squash you into her insides, her lips forming a mushy gateway. With Godzilla's fingerprint on your spine, you're plunged into a world no human has ever seen before, a vagina so big a microcar could fit in it. The sheer level of arousal coursing through Godzilla's veins helps in stretching the tube of moist tissue out into a decently comfortable pouch, like a human-sized vial. You feel like you're in some fucked up Magic School Bus episode. 

You scramble around in the skintight cavern of salmon, with huge drops of pussy juice popping off the "ceiling" and punching you in the back of the head like giant water leaks. Each and every one of your movements painlessly twists and tickles a muscle in the interior of Godzilla's genitals, making her entire body shiver and shudder, which is essentially an earthquake for you. In a blind attempt to get your bearings, your arm slips back out the lips and grabs the first thing it touches. Feels like a soccerball made of rugae...whatever it is, it makes the metaphorical Richter scale go off the charts. Godzilla howls and shudders in her own reptilian, beastly tongue. You hear a torrent careening down the shadowy edges of the vagina, and realize you tugged her clitoris in just the right way. Just like if a toilet chain was pulled, you're about to get flushed out. Similar to an explosive sewer overflow, a lake's worth of pussy juice comes crashing through the damp, portly tunnel in a squirt with a magnitude that could never be put to words. You're expelled from her vag and dragged back out through her vulva, violently carried back to the street by the waterfall of cunt nectar gushing out of Godzilla's hole, also cushioning the ensuing half-story fall. 

You stir around on the concrete in a pungent-tasting swimming pool stain, clambering to your feet as extract sops off of you. Like a happy dog, Godzilla turns around and cleans you squeaky clean with a single flick of her tongue. Awkwardly thankful that she didn't pulp you with her sole or pulverize you with her atomic breath like the rest of California, you place your palm upon her snout and give her an assuring pet in return. She closes her eyes in delight, and after the short wordless exchange, she rises back to a stand. She slowly lumbers right back into the San Francisco Bay where she came from, letting the estuary swallow her ankles, then her waist, then her neck, then...nothing. A faint black shadow lingers beneath the shimmering water for a few seconds before vanishing. All that's left is the cloudy sunset's reflection in the surrounding meadow of blue. You sit among the fiery wastes of San Fran as a rescue chopper buzzes around above, spotting you in your seated stare at the Bay. You're not really sure what the hell to think right now. You just lost your virginity to a natural disaster. The one and only thing you're damn sure of is that you need a vacation, a long, long getaway from...everything. All of this. Tokyo has always seemed nice...  



End file.
